Something Blue
by Pickzee
Summary: After the war completely breaks Harry down, can Draco help piece him back together again? HD Warning suicide attempts.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Something Blue

Rating: R

Summary: After the war completely breaks Harry down, can Draco help piece him back together again?

Spoilers: up through HBP

Warnings: Slash, suicide attempt

Disclaimer: Do you see groupies following me around begging for my signature? No. Therefore we can rule out the possibility of me being a famous singer, actor or JK Rowling.

Author's Note: As an American, I cannot attest to the conditions in a British psychiatric hospital, but everything I've written about has been seen/experienced first hand.

Chapter One

_All alone in space and time,_

_There's nothing here, but what here's mine,_

_Something borrowed, something blue,_

_Every me and every you,_

_Every me and every you_

_-_Placebo, Every You Every Me

-

Harry Potter could not cope. That was the main reason he had ended up at the London Psychiatric Hospital. Well, that, and his suicide attempt the week before. The wounds on his wrists hadn't quite healed up yet, and where they had, an ugly purple scar began to appear from underneath the scabs. His fingers traced over the jagged lines, picking at the clotted blood as they went.

"Mr. Potter?"

"Yes?"

"Have you even been listening to what I've been saying?" the social worker asked, breaking him out of his reverie. "I've been working with you this whole week and at each meeting you act like you're absorbed in some other world. I wonder if you've even made any progress, but since you have no insurance and have surpassed the amount that your friends have put together for you, I'm pressed to discharge you."

Harry cast his eyes downwards, avoiding her hazel stare. "So I should just go pack my bags?"

"You're going to have to stay one more night. You'll need to go over some paperwork with the attending psychiatrist and myself, but then you'll be free to go. You'll also need someone to come pick you up."

"That won't be necessary, I'll just take the Underground. It would be more convenient for me anyways."

"We need to be sure you have a safe way home - either by car or with a friend or relative. You should actually head out and call now - phone time is almost over."

The door swung shut and Harry shuffled into the ward's common room. A few other men were situated there, most of them in pajamas or sloppily dressed in casual clothing. Only one man appeared put together, and he stood by the bookshelf organizing and reorganizing them.

"Hello, Harry. A man in medical scrubs, stepped out of the nursing station. "How'd your meeting with Mrs. Robinson go?"

"As good as can be expected I supposed. I'm leaving tomorrow. I just need to call a friend to pick me up."

"Well, you can take the last phone on the far end, but you'll have to make it a quick call, phone time is over in fifteen minutes."

-

The conversation started abruptly, with no traditional salutations.

"Hermione, I need you to come pick me up," Harry barked into the handset of the pay phone.

Hermione's voice wavered as she responded, "They're just letting you go? You've only been there a week and last time we talked you were still on suicide watch. It just doesn't make sense. You didn't, you know, do something to them did you?"

Harry drew a heavy sigh. "No, they released me of their own will, thank you very much. They can't keep me here anymore. I have no insurance and they money you pooled together for me has run out."

Another sigh wafted through the phone, this time from Hermione. "You're one of the richest wizards in London and yet you refuse to pay the money to take care of yourself! It's like you're glad to get of there, whether you're better or not."

"Of course I'm glad to get out, regardless of whether I'm 'better' or not. It's like prison in here, Hermione. It's not like in that movie you like, what's it called - Interrupted Girl or something like that. It's worse. It's cinder block walls and hard cots. They take away everything. Hell, they even take away your _shoelaces_. "

"You know what? Fine, I'll pick you up even though I think it's against your best interests. I just need you to know you're upsetting me."

"So you'll come? Tomorrow, nine o'clock, male unit B. I'll be waiting for you in the front hall," he said his voice laced with hope.

"I'm coming,."

"Thanks."

So, I'll see you tomorrow. I love you."

"I love you too. Bye," he intoned flatly.

-

The scratchy, standard issue white sheets, rubbed against Harry's skin as he tossed and turned that night. Sleep eluded him; a ghost gliding just beyond reach. Instead he picked at his scabbed over wounds, peeling back the dried blood revealing raw, red tissue. Occasionally, he would go too far, and a stream of blood would eek forth, pooling in ruby beads on his skin. He liked the pain of it - not because he was masochistic, but because it was the one thing that proved he was alive.

As dawn broke, he finally settled into a troubled sleep.

-

Hermione drove up in a Ministry issue car - nondescript and black except for the thick aura of magic around it which was so strong that even Muggles were put off by the sensation. She slid out from the back seat dressed in a prim and proper pantsuit, thanking the driver as she went. Striding up to the door , she pressed a button and waited for an orderly to open the door. When one did, she was shocked by the starkness of the room.

"Step inside please - I need to close the door, there's too high a risk of elopement to keep it open for more than a few seconds," the orderly grumbled.

"Elopement?"

"When a patient tries to run away."

As she stepped further into the entryway, she caught a glimpse of the common room. One man was writing in a journal in red marker, scribbling "FUCK" all over the page. Another alphabetized the books on the shelves, straightening them until the spines all lined up evenly. At the table, one man was clutching his face in his hands and mumbling into his palms. The rest of the patients, including Harry, were lined up in front of the nurse's station, waiting for their daily medications. As Harry got to the front of the line, a cup of pills was emptied into his hand and he downed them with a swig of water. He opened his mouth, sticking out his tongue for the nurse and was free to go.

"Harry!" Hermione cried as he entered the hallway.

He turned sharply at her voice and stood stock still as she ran up to envelope him in a hug. His arms were pinned to his sides and he made no move to return her embrace.

"'Lo Hermione," he said as soon as he was able to breathe again.

She was taken aback with the iciness that dripped from the words, and internally she worried that maybe this hadn't been in his best interests at all, but maybe just an attempt to ease her own mind. She yanked herself out of those thoughts however, instead reassuring herself that this _was_ what Harry needed. He was troubled, especially since the end of the war. He had never told her all that he'd seen or done only that he had killed Voldemort and watched one of his best friends die in the same battle. There was so much she didn't know about him anymore, so much he refused to tell her. Whenever she pressured him into talking, he responded with a different answer: "I don't want to relive it," "You really don't want to know," "It would hurt you too much." So she never learned why Ron was dead or why Harry was in shambles. Everything was broken now, she realized: her friends, her engagement, the wizarding world, life as a whole.

"Where are your bags?"

"In my room. I wasn't expecting you quite so early, but I can go grab them."

"Let me help you."

Harry scowled. "No visitors in the patients' rooms. No offense, it's just policy."

"Oh, okay. Well, I'll just wait out here then." She shifted her weight from foot to foot, all the while staring at the grayish tiles that lined the floor. She kicked some invisible dirt around and sighed. The air was oppressive and tasted stale, with a hint of antiseptic.

Harry walked back into the hall, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder. "Ready to head out? God knows I am." There was a definite bitter edge to his voice and there was a harshness directed towards his friend.

"Come on then."

Leaving the unit, not a word passed between the two until they reached the car. Harry went in first, then Hermione slid in.

With a quick wave of her wand magic encircled the back half of the car, keeping in any sound. The air was tight with unspoken words.

"What has gotten into you? You acted like I was Lucius Malfoy when you greeted me five minutes ago!" Hermione screeched.

"Don't say that." He gritted his teeth as he said it and let his eyes filled with fury.

"Say what? That you've become a complete and utter bastard? That I can't bear the way you've been treating me? That you've never told me a thing about the war?"

"Don't say that name."

"Lucius, Lucius, Lucius," she taunted, eager to get some sort of rise out of Harry.

"I said don't say that name!" He bellowed. Raw magic was crackled in the air as little bolts of lightning jumped from his fingers.

"Why? Did he do something to you during the war?"

"I murdered him."

Hermione's mouth formed an 'o' but no sound came out.

Harry continued his rant. Apparently once started, it was like the breaking of the dam. "You want to hear about the war? Fine, I'll tell you about the war. Lucius Malfoy took me captive and made me watch as he tortured Ron to death. Not just with _crucio_ but by Muggle means as well. By the end I was spattered in blood and resigned to my own death. Draco Malfoy is the only reason I'm alive now. He was supposed to be guarding me but he fell asleep on his watch. I'm still not sure if it was an accident or not; I haven't seen him since. But I snuck into Lucius's room and killed him in his sleep. I killed him in cold blood. Despite what had happened it was still murder, and murder of the worst kind at that. There, are you happy now?"

Hermione had drawn her knees up to her chest and was sobbing into her palms. Harry remained in his seat, staring blankly at the driver in front of him.


	2. Chapter 2

Title: Something Blue

Rating: R

Summary: After the war completely breaks Harry down, can Draco help piece him back together again?

Spoilers: up through HBP

Warnings: Slash, suicide attempt

Disclaimer: Do you see groupies following me around begging for my signature? No. Therefore we can rule out the possibility of me being a famous singer, actor or JK Rowling.

Author's Note: I won't even go into explaining how chaotic the last two months have been, and, regardless, it doesn't atone for the fact that I pretty much abandoned this fic for a month and a half. Hopefully, I will be much more on the ball for the next chapter. I'm about to send it out to my beta right now in fact.

Chapter 2

_Every finger in the room is pointing at me_

_I want to spit in their faces,_

_But I'm afraid of what that could bring_

_I've got a bowling ball in my stomach,_

_I've got a desert in my mouth_

_Figures that my courage would choose to sell out now_

_I'm looking for a savior in these dirty streets_

_I'm looking for a savior beneath these dirty sheets_

-Tori Amos, Crucify

-

**The Daily Prophet**

**Harry Potter Institutionalized: Our Savior Gone Mad?**

Rita Skeeter

_On November 20th at approximately 9:30 in the morning, an anonymous source saw Harry Potter leaving London Psychiatric Hospital, a Muggle facility for the treatment of sufferers of mental illness. Drawn and haggard, he carried a duffel bag and was in the company of Hermione Granger, head of a relatively new department in the Ministry, the Department for the Welfare of Magical Creatures. The same source saw Potter enter the facility a week prior, also in company of Miss Granger. They left in an unmarked Ministry car. Why they did not admit Potter to St. Mungos and chose a Muggle facility instead is unknown to this reporter. Has the war finally caught up to Harry Potter?_

_For greater depth into Harry Potter's history of mental disturbance turn to the page 3._

-

It was noon when Hedwig flew through Hermione's window, clutching a bright red envelope. She dropped the envelope on Hermione's desk, then retreated as quickly as she could back through the window. Smoke began to rise from the corners of the envelope, and Hermione opened it tentatively.

"Hermione Granger!" the Howler screamed in Harry's voice which was amplified tenfold, "Do you have any idea what you've done? Look at the paper! You don't even need to open it up, just look at the front page! The whole world thinks I'm crazy! Again! So thanks ever so much for doing something 'in my best interests' - because it really worked out, didn't it! Just... just stay away from me."

The Howler crumpled into ash on the report Hermione had been working on, and she felt tears well up in her eyes. She was broken hearted to think that she might be losing her friend, but more than that she was furious - at his ingratitude, his pigheadedness, and more than anything the way Rita Skeeter was targeting him like this. When the tears finally stopped, she had a determined look in her eyes and a hardness to her voice.

"I will not let this destroy him."

-

Of the many things that Harry had learned during his stay in the hospital was the magic of makeup. Namely concealer. He squeezed a dollop of the cream colored liquid on to his forefinger and smoothed the makeup over his telltale scar. He'd learned this trick from one of the other men on the ward; the man had cut and burned himself and in order to hide the scars he rubbed concealer over them.

After 'getting rid of' his scar, he popped in a pair of blue colored contacts. He was looking for anonymity today, and if it meant changing his appearance, then so be it. He only hoped that covering his most telling features would be enough to keep the public from knowing his true identity. He slung a cloak over his robes and apparated to Diagon Alley.

The anonymity felt fitting to his mood; as long as he was someone other than Harry Potter, he could escape from the lingering traces of the war - memories, losses, emotions - even if it was just for a day, an hour, a minute. And that respite kept him alive. Even during his rare moments of escape, Harry could still see the mangled corpses on the battlefield from a war that _he_ had led them into. Still heard their screams. Still felt the agony from each loss. Hermione couldn't understand that, and he didn't want her to. He just wanted her to leave him alone. Wanted everyone to leave him alone. But it would never happen, at least not while he lived.

Diagon Alley was bustling as always. Everywhere he looked witches and wizards were chatting and haggling with shop keepers. Weasleys' Wizards Wheezes was packed with kids looking for the next great prank to pull on their parents. No one paid any attention to the blue eyed wizard as he turned into the apothecary. Harry always hated the apothecary. It reminded him of detentions under Snape's supervision - cleaning cauldrons or chopping rat spleens. It also smelled as if something had crawled under a shelf and died months ago. All in all it was a rather revolting place for Harry but he braved it anyway; he was on a mission and he wouldn't let the memories or the smell distract him from it.

There was no line, and the witch behind the counter quickly fetched the ingredients Harry requested.

"Would you like these whole or ground?" she asked, wheezing slightly.

"Ground, please."

She nodded stiffly, pulling a mortar and pestle from a drawer, and began to smash the plants together with the pestle.

An icy hand rested on Harry's shoulder and a smooth drawl whispered into his ear, "My, my, my, Potter, what could you be doing with nightshade and belladonna? Poisoning someone perhaps? No, Saint Potter would never do something so sinister. Then what are you doing with this?"

"Malfoy," Potter ground out through his teeth. "I'll have you know I'm just making a... uh... sleeping potion. I've become somewhat of an insomniac recently."

"Well, that's one lethal sleeping potion. If it were anyone but you, I'd think you were trying to kill yourself." He slipped his hand farther down Harry's arm, now grasping his bicep loosely enough that it didn't hurt, but tightly enough that Harry couldn't escaping his grasp.

"Bugger off."

"I really don't feel like it right now, maybe later." He slid his hand farther down Harry's arm so it rested just above his wrist. "Or maybe you are as disturbed as the Prophet says. Maybe the war has pushed you so far that you can't step back. Maybe the great Potter is just as much of a coward as I am." He pulled back the sleeve of Harry's robes, revealing an angry red scar, stretching two or three inches up from his wrist.

"Did Hermione put you up to this? ...Wait. Did you just say you tried to kill yourself?"

"I said I was a coward, Potter, not that I tried to off myself. I don't give out personal information that easily." Draco rolled his eyes.

"Well whatever you did or didn't do, you have no control over what I do or don't do to myself."

"Au contraire. I have plenty of control over what you do. I saved you. I saved your life and I didn't do that so you could just go and kill yourself as soon as you had the chance. You owe me a wizard's debt, Potter, and I intend to cash in on it."

The witch behind the counter passed Harry a brown paper bag containing his purchases. Before Harry could clutch the bag, Draco interjected.

"Thanks for buying these for me while I was getting that book at Flourish and Blotts. I'll just take them from here."

Draco gave Harry a sharp glare and raised his eyebrows pointedly as he apparated away with a 'pop,' carrying Harry's purchase with him.

"That'll be seven sickles, dearie."

-

When Hemione returned to the house she shared with Harry on the outskirts of London, it was silent. She would have returned earlier, but she could not come up with an excuse to get out of her rather pressing meeting with the Minister, and had only just been able to escape home. Upon entering the foyer, the whole house appeared to be empty and nothing moved within the house. She tiptoed through the first floor and up the stairs to the loft above. Her fears gripped her like a vice and it was all she could do to keep from running screaming into the room. She held herself in restraint, scared she would startle him into doing something drastic, but even more worried that he already had. She put her ear to the door.

Silence.

Thousands of scenarios ran through her head - all of them bad. Harry sprawled on his stomach, grasping an empty pill bottle or a flask of poison. Or maybe he'd be curled up in a pool of his own blood. Or maybe, maybe. There were too many maybes.

She opened the door.

And found Harry laying face up on the bed, idly scraping at his scars as he bored holes in the ceiling with his eyes. He didn't move when she walked in, remaining in the same dazed state he had been in all evening. The only change was in the lines around his mouth, which hardened into a scowl.

"Oh God Harry! You're alive! I got your owl and I was so worried; I thought you might have, you know, _tried _again."

"I tell you to get out of my life and you think I'm suicidal?"

"Well, Harry," Hermione's voice wavered and cracked. "You've been so out of sorts lately, I can't tell what anything you do means anymore. It seems that everything sets you off these days, and I don't know when you'll do something serious."

Harry's scowl deepened as he answered sarcastically. "What? So now everything I do means I'm going to kill myself? 'He ordered the lamb? Oh no, it means he's going to kill himself.'"

"I didn't mean it like that at all and I think you know that. I just mean that I worry a lot about you these days and getting angry messages from you isn't very comforting."

"Did you ever think that I might be telling you to fuck off for a reason? That your incessant meddling has dragged my name through mud -"

"You needed help! You still need help!"

"- And that your mothering is suffocating, There's nothing you do that isn't infuriating to me. Your cheery optimism lost it's credibility in sixth year, and it's not coming back. So unless you have something that will really win me over, just turn around and walk down those stairs."

"I'm sorry."

The scornful lessened a bit; the stiffness in his shoulders seemed to crumple away. His eyes fluttered shut and his head sunk to his hands. Hermione watched as her friend seemed to age by the second. She stared into his eyes as they opened.

"Come over here."

She settled herself next to Harry on the bed. Words betrayed her, and Hermione found that maybe there were some things best left unsaid. Instead she just took his arm, and smoothed her fingers over the line of reddened flesh.

"I'm so, so sorry."

Harry's eyes blinked once, twice and then closed completely. "You already told me that."

"I'm not just talking about what I've done. I mean that I am sorry for whatever you've been through, whatever you're going through."

-

Draco leaned back in his study, perusing the titles of the books around him from an antique library chair. He should be reading and editing articles for the Prophet and working on the layout for tomorrow's paper, but he was too consumed with the day's personal developments.

So, Skeeter's article had been true. It was difficult information to process, even though he had seen evidence first hand and Potter had practically confessed the whole thing to him. Draco's mind was still lodged in his school day belief that Potter was the infallible Golden Boy. He'd always resented the boy for that, but now the illusion had been shattered like the many shards of a broken window pane. Despite the horror of the Golden Boy's descent into what one could easily term madness, Draco found that for the very first time he could acually identify with the man.

Conflicted between morality and prosperity, business and personal, Draco gave one more look to the layout for The Daily Prophet's next edition and drew a large 'X' through a box on the first page with the words 'Potter Story - Rita Skeeter' written in Draco's tight, formal script. In its stead he scribbled 'Potter Retraction - Draco Malfoy.' A few hours of extra work would be nothing compared to what this would bring him.


End file.
